


an unexpected reunion

by thejollysailor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Kidnapping, Post-Quest of Erebor, Some angst, Some humour, more angst than originally anticipated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:35:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejollysailor/pseuds/thejollysailor
Summary: “We give you the thief and traitor, Bilbo Baggins!”With a sort of flourish of his hand that would probably look ridiculous to Thorin if he wasn’t experiencing and doing a horrid job at suppressing the feelings of panic, rage and excitement all at once, Helge beckoned the younger dwarrow to lift the hood off the smaller figure in front of him. The face revealed was freckled and dirty, eyes blinking against the sudden light and for a moment, a sweet, terrifying moment, Thorin saw Bilbo: button-nosed and beautiful with that look upon her face that was a mix of absolute horror and desperately wishing she was halfway across the world.But that was only for the briefest moment. As the figure in front of him adjusted to the light and the look upon the face changed from that expression he had known (and feared) on Bilbo to one of such weary anger that he took an undeliberate step back, Thorin had several revelations all at once.“That…” he heard Balins voice say from behind him, sounding as if he could or simply would not comprehend the amount of mess his statement and this whole situation entailed, “is not Bilbo Baggins.”





	1. In which Thorin receives an unexpected gift

Thorin Oakenshield was not having a good day.

Of course, when he woke up that morning, he had not yet known of the avalanche of problems that was soon to wreak havoc upon his life. He had attended the meetings of both his own council and the tailors guild, as usual. He had inspected the repairs on one of the lower mines and patted the backs of the soot stained miners there and congratulated them on their work. He had lunch with his sister who had made him rub some dirt from around his eyes before realising that his now-sniggering sister had just made him draw a pair of spectacles on himself with the leftover soot on his hands. He had returned fuming with barely suppressed rage to his room to wash, still starving and with the cackling of the maniacal woman he had the dubious pleasure of calling his sister following him all the way there. Still raging slightly, he had made his way to one of the smaller halls that was used for audiences. Thorin usually liked audiences, just as he liked all parts of kingship that were practical: he would much rather greet dirty miners and foreign dignitaries than spend hours reading reports on tariffs, even if it did provide his sister and sister-sons with ample opportunity to make him a laughingstock.

But today was not one of the days were he thought the audiences a very welcome disruption in his day. After greeting a visiting spice merchant from the Orocarni who had asked and been granted permission to set up stall in one of the markets and a delegation from Laketown who was here to negotiate with some of the guilds, a figure that Thorin recognised stepped forward. He had known Helge several years before, during the wandering years. Helge’s grandfather Helmun had been a favourite of Thorin’s grandfather who had held the old warrior and his counsel in high esteem. The same could not be said of Thorin’s attitude towards Helge. Even in their youth he had rubbed Thorin the wrong way, pretentious and preening as he was. It did not seem that time had rid him of these two qualities: as he bent the knee before him, Thorin could see that his hair and beard were intricately braided with just too much oil and wax in it. But he could also tell that the dark velvet doublet Helge wore was worn thin in places and that his boots had been resoled several times. Thorin felt a pang of pity for the man that lasted until he opened his mouth.

“Greetings and hail to your grace, King Thorin!”

Thorin nodded and held up a hand to signal that Helge could rise. It was only then that he noticed that Helge was not alone. Behind him stood a small company of dwarrows, all clustered together around a smaller figure that was not quite hidden from view. Thorin frowned and leaned forward to get a better look but was distracted by Helge speaking once again.

“My lord, I know it has been many years since our last meeting, but it gives me great joy to again be within your halls!” he boomed.

“You are welcome within my halls, Helge, son of Halfdan. And your company also.” Thorin spoke, a bit less enthusiastically than Helge had. Helge bowed with a flourish once again before he replied.

“I thank you, your grace. I must again express my gratitude at your welcome! I am overwhelmed but not surprised at the generosity of it. Your majesty’s benevolence is of course no surprise to any who know you or those who sired you. But it still warms me greatly given, well, given some past misunderstandings.”

Helge smiled smarmily and Thorin tightened his grip upon his chair. Oh yes, he remembered perfectly well this ‘misunderstanding’ that Helge was referring to, though calling it a misunderstanding would be generous indeed. Halfdan, Helge’s father had quite early on proved himself to be not even half the dwarrow his father had been. After the fall of Erebor, he had taken to drinking heavily, neglecting his kin in the process. Thorin took pity on the boy whose grandfather had been so dear to his own and entrusted Helge with a small position within his heavily reduced government in Ered Luin, a decision he would come to regret. In his stupidity and eagerness to prove himself, Helge had taken funds that would otherwise have gone to the repairs of the neglected halls of the Blue Mountains and placed them in some risky investments that had of course proven disastrous. Helge had been dismissed without honours and had as a result spent the last century or so trying to gain back Thorin’s favour. He could easily remember how Helge had tried to wheedle his way into Erebor soon after the expulsion of the dread-worm. He had made Balin make it clear to Helge that there would be no position for him in neither court nor council and he had left as quietly as his pride allowed him too. Now he was back once again, this time looking smugger than Thorin could recall him ever doing despite his shabby attire. The fact made Thorin uneasy.

Helge had clearly been waiting for Thorin to make a reply but as soon as he realised he would not, continued hurriedly.

“I know that I have given your majesty cause to doubt me in the past and I bitterly, bitterly regret ever having given you cause to do so. But it is my most fervent hope that the past may be forgiven now”.

Helge turned and waved at his companions while hissing an order, or perhaps a name. One of them, a young dwarrow that could hardly be a day over a hundred stepped forward and revealed what the group had been shielding from Thorin’s view. It was a person, a small figure that stumbled as the young dwarrow pushed it, determinedly but not unkindly, forward towards Helge. The figure had what looked to be sack covering its head and its hands were tied in front of them. Thorin stood up from his chair.

“What is the meaning of this Helge?” Thorin said grimly. He had the distinct feeling that he would not like this who- or whatever was hiding beneath that hood. Helge looked slightly uncomfortable at the icy tone in Thorin’s voice but collected himself and continued in the same reverential tone as before.

“Your majesty! Long have I desired to heal the wounds between us, to prove to your majesty my loyalty and devotion to yourself. I realised however that to convince your majesty I would need to do a truly magnificent service to you, your grace and for many years I have hoped, indeed searched for such an opportunity to prove my undying respect for you and as it happened I was trav-“

“Mahal damn you, Helge, get to the point!” Thorin almost did not realise he himself had roared the words before he heard Balin sigh behind him. Helge had taken a startled step back, nearly knocking into the hooded figure standing half a pace behind him. He composed himself quickly but sounded less assured when he once again spoke.

”Of course, your majesty.. as I was travelling, the idea of what service I could do for you that would be sufficient for you to deign to forgive me, came to me along with an opportunity to carry it out. So, with the hope that it will please you, my lord!”

The last part made it sound almost as if Helge was about to gift him with a horrid and impractical piece of tapestry rather than revealing who this person, who Thorin was getting increasingly sure was not here by their own free will. If this was Helge’s idea of a good gift of reconciliation it could only mean disaster and Thorin almost felt sick.

“We give you the thief and traitor, Bilbo Baggins!”

With a sort of flourish of his hand that would probably look ridiculous to Thorin if he wasn’t experiencing and doing a horrid job at suppressing the feelings of panic, rage and excitement all at once, Helge beckoned the younger dwarrow to lift the hood off the smaller figure in front of him. The face revealed was freckled and dirty, eyes blinking against the sudden light and for a moment, a sweet, terrifying moment, Thorin saw Bilbo: button-nosed and beautiful with that look upon her face that was a mix of absolute horror and desperately wishing she was halfway across the world.

But that was only for the briefest moment. As the figure in front of him adjusted to the light and the look upon the face changed from that expression he had known (and feared) on Bilbo to one of such weary anger that he took an undeliberate step back, Thorin had several revelations all at once.

First, that the figure in front of him was not Bilbo Baggins.

Second, that whoever was in front of him was either going to start crying or screaming very soon and that he would rather not be in the proximity of either.

Third, that he was absolutely _fucked_.

“That…” he heard Balins voice say from behind him, sounding as if he could or simply would not comprehend the amount of mess his statement and this whole situation entailed, “is not Bilbo Baggins.”


	2. In which Bellis meets a stranger

_Three months earlier_

Someone was watching her, Bellis was sure of it.

At first it had just been that vague sense of being observed but not knowing from where but as she had made her way down the path towards home. She had just been to call on Esmeralda, who was both a cousin on her mother’s side and the future lady of Brandy Hall besides and therefore worth visiting, if only for proprieties sake. Esmeralda had just given birth to a remarkably ugly but very silent baby and was therefore still convalescing in bed. The boy (whom his mother had proudly introduced as Meriadoc) had peered up at Bellis with large, thoughtful eyes as she had held him and congratulated his beaming mother on having delivered such a fine and beautiful boy. The last bit had of course been a lie, but Bellis did not feel bad for lying, firstly because it had made Esmeralda happy and secondly because it made it all the easier to get on with the actual purpose of her visit. She had relinquished baby Meriadoc to his mother and said her farewells before making her way outside once again where she quickly located the object of her visit.

Her cousin Frodo was squatting above a puddle of mud, elbows deep in it and apparently making some sort of crude figurines from the mixture. She stood a movement, observing him before calling out to him. He had peered up from his game, smiled and then quickly made a dash towards her. Bellis had only cringed for a moment as Frodo threw his arms around her, smearing her skirt with mud but quietly scolded herself and returned the embrace. Bellis new that her vanity, her fussiness with her looks and delight in pretty embroidery and silken ribbons, was not exactly a virtue. She compensated momentarily for it by hoisting Frodo up into her arms and rubbing a bit of mud from his nose, which made him laugh. Frodo really was too old to be picked up like this but Bellis was tall and strong and Frodo quite small for a 14-year-old.

“Have you missed me?” she asked him.

“Not much.” He replied, poking his tongue at her. She gasped in mock shock.

“And I who thought I was your favourite cousin! I’m quite hurt!” she said, pretending to be on the verge of tears. Frodo giggled.

“You are. Ferdibrand and Filibert doesn’t want to play with me and Merry is just a baby.”

Feeling slightly hurt that she was only the favourite cousin by virtue of wanting to play with him and being well, not a toddler, Bellis asked Frodo about his game. He quickly introduced her to his quite intricate game that seemed to involve meticulously building a little army of mud-orcs only to smash them with sticks, apparently representing elves. They spent quite a merry afternoon vanquishing their imaginary muddy foes and it was late when Frodo was called inside for afternoon tea and Bellis made her way home, shouting reassurances that she would come play with him soon again.

As she had made her way home, taking a path meandering along the Brandywine she had mused upon how much happier Frodo had seem. When he had come to live at Brandy Hall two years ago, he had been sullen and silent, which was really no surprise since he had just lost both of his parents to the very river she was now walking by. He was much changed now and Bellis was glad of it and hoped that she had, in her own small way, contributed to this change. She and her mother had taken a special interest in the boy. Bilbo because he was the only cousin left to her that did not belong to the wretched Sackville-Bagginses and because he was a bright and pleasant lad besides. Bellis’s reasons had been the same but added to it was the fact that she felt especially connected to the now orphaned boy. Bellis had grown up half an orphan herself, having never known her own father and could easily imagine it would be twice as hard for Frodo growing up without both of his parents. So, she had taken to walking to Brandy Hall once or twice a week to seek out her cousin, bringing him little gifts of newly picked strawberries or nicely embroidered neckties that he would sully with dirt and mud within half an hour but which brought him joy nonetheless. There had even been talk of them taking in the boy after the dreadful accident, but it had been decided that it would be better for the boy to live at Brandy Hall, where there was more company of his own age. Besides, Crickhollow was only situated a mile and a half from the home of the Brandybucks and so visits could easily be made. Bellis wondered to herself whether they should not invite Frodo to stay sometime, perhaps in the fall when the Took relatives visiting for the summer would depart once again and Brandy Hall would be marginally quieter than it usually was in the summer months. She smiled to herself and thought of all the nice things she and her mother could come up with for Frodo’s entertainment and resolved to suggest it to her mother upon her return.

She was so preoccupied with thoughts of apple-picking and hayrides that she did not notice it at first and when she did, she ignored it. But as the sun slowly set and she was nearing home she was positively sure that she was not imagining the heavy footfalls following her. She tried not to panic at first, telling herself that it was merely another hobbit making their way home and stomping a bit too enthusiastically at the thought of supper. Perhaps Master Falco Banks making his way home to his farm at Bankside or one of his farmhands? But no, even if that had been the case it would not account for the distinct sound of pebbles _crunching_ underfoot _._ Even the hardiest Proudfoot, whose soles were as thick as their heads as her mother was wont to say, could not produce such a sound. Whoever was following her, and Bellis was quite sure they were following her, was wearing boots.

She tried to pick up speed without seeming suspicious and knew better than to look behind her for the source of the sound as it would both frighten her more and alert whoever it was. Had she had more courage she would have turned around and invoked whoever it was, but she knew herself well enough, that the words would probably be stuck in her throat and she would turn tail and run, tripping over her skirts or something equally stupid. Her only plan was to get in sight of Crickhollow and make a sprint for it: she knew she could outrun anyone of her peers on short distances and she begged to the Green Lady for speed and swiftness, that she might also be able to do so now.

She had just seen the first glimpse of the oh so familiar and welcome red brick walls of her home and was preparing herself to break into a sprint, when a voice shouted at her.

“Oi! Excuse me, miss!”

The voice was, despite shouting, so soft and non-threatening, that it startled Bellis out of her instinct to flee head over heels. Instead she turned around and was greeted by the strangest sight: a figure, elegantly but outlandishly dressed in hose and doublet with long slicked hair and a goatee beard that seemed to glisten in the low afternoon sun. She had not even seen so much hair on a Bree-man! Had it not been for the fact that her heart was thumping so loudly with fear and agitation she was sure it could be heard in Michel Delving she would probably have laughed out loud at the absolute ridiculousness of his attire – but her hysterical laughter died just as it was about to burst from her involuntarily as she spotted the very non-ridiculous sword hanging at the dwarrows side.

Bellis had seen other dwarrow before, groups of them even, travelling through the Shire on their way from the Blue Mountains to Bree, peddling their wares and tinkering pots and farmtools on their way. She had always been wary of them and her mother too, who would always drag her closer or turn in the other direction when they were passing them on the road or on a market. As such, this was the first time that she saw a dwarrow up close and she could honestly say she was not interested in getting an any closer look.

“Wh-what do you want, master dwarf?” Bellis managed to find her voice, unsteady as it was.

The dwarrow took a step towards her and smiled in a way that would be kindly, had he not half a meter of steel hanging from his hip. He spoke again.

“Oh, I have only lost my way, mistress and was wondering if you could provide me with directions. Do you live near here?” Bellis did not like the way he talked, the way his words dripped from his lips like honey from a spoon. He reminded her of something dangerous, a viper, she decided and suddenly wished that she could crush his skull under her heel.

“I do,” she replied shortly, regaining a bit of steadiness in her voice, “right up the road. At Crickhollow.” She pointed in the direction. “I’d be happy to show you on your way, master dwarf. Where are you going?”

Bellis was not happy at all to help him but she figured that the sooner she did so, the sooner he would be on his way and she would be rid of him.

“To Bree, miss.”

“Oh, that is quite easy to find. You just follow The Hedge north until you reach the East Road. There is a gate through the Hedge, just up the road though I would recommend you stay on this side of it. There’s no saying what could happen on the side of the Old Forest.” Bellis decided to omit that she would be quite thankful to any fairy or wood-shepherd who would take him away, never to return.  

The dwarrow bowed to her with a flourish of his hand and rose.

“I thank you. I am most beholden to you for your help, miss…?”

Bellis had the sudden impulse that she should not give this stranger her name, but she pushed it away. She had already told him where she lived, after all. What would her name hurt?

“Baggins, master dwarf. Miss Baggins"

The dwarrow’s smile widened and Bellis could tell that she had made some kind of mistake, though why giving him her name had anything to do with it, was beyond her. She wanted desperately to be home, to be away from here and she quickly curtsied and made to move around. She had hardly turned before strong arms gripped her from behind and a large hand was placed upon her mouth, drowning the protests streaming from her. She tried to kick at whoever was grabbing her, but it was futile. The last thing she saw before something was pulled over her head was the dwarrow, his viper smile wide and a triumphant gleam in his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all thanks for all the lovely comments on chapter 1. 
> 
> To avoid any confusion: yes, Bilbo and her daughter Bellis (OC), live at Crickhollow (the same house that Frodo purchased before leaving the Shire in The Fellowship of the Ring). The short explanation (and it will be explained further in future chapters) is that Bilbo sold Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses upon her return to the Shire and moved to Buckland to live in relative peace and quiet with her child. 
> 
> The story takes place in 1382 SR (2982 TA), roughly forty years after the Quest for Erebor - and to my surprise also the year that Merry was born (hence the little cameo). Frodo was born in 1368, making him 14 years old (I imagine him to be about 10-11 in human years). Bellis is 40 years old (you see where this is going) and is roughly about 20 years in human years.


	3. In which a burglar is robbed

Bilbo Baggins worried for her daughter.

Not just in the way that most parents do for their children – worrying over their health, future prospects and whether they were spending their time in proper company. No, Bilbo Baggins had always had the unpleasant but unwavering feeling that something bad was going to happen to her only child. What this bad thing was she did not know, and the feeling had never been so acute as to cause any alarm within her, but she had always had the foreboding that some kind of disaster lay ahead of her daughter.

Not that there was anything in her daughter’s nature that gave cause to these worries. No, her daughter was above all else a kind nature, active and accomplished, that never gave her any cause to fret. It was rather the circumstances concerning her daughter that gave her cause to alarm, circumstances that Bilbo knew full well that she was responsible for. And it was exactly these circumstances and her daughter’s kind nature that made her sure that some undefined evil would one day befall her.

Which was why Bilbo had spent much of the last forty years quietly trying to prevent this unknown but in her mind certain catastrophe. She had returned home with a newfound courage in her heart and a bastard daughter on her arm to find that her home had been occupied by that pesky Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her oaf of a husband. Rather than kicking up a fuss as she would have in other circumstances, she took the opportunity that fate had seemingly given her. With the help of her Took cousins, among whom was a number with an uncanny good grasp of Shire-law, she had herself declared not dead and had made the Sackville-Bagginses pay a truly preposterous amount of money for having unlawfully taken over her home. But Bilbo was not an unfair hobbit: she had kindly offered the Sackville-Bagginses to continue their occupation of Bag End – provided they pay a handsome sum in rent it of course.

Thus, Bilbo had found herself a rather wealthier hobbit than when she had set out from the Shire. It had cost her beloved Bag End and a great deal of respectability, but Bilbo couldn’t care less about the latter. When it came to the former, she had to agree with her grandfather, the Old Took that it was perhaps not in their best interest to parade around Hobbiton with a child whose father was unknown. The Baggins named held much esteem in those parts, but even good hobbits had their limits as to how blatantly one could parade around a bastard. It was much better to move someplace where such things were less frowned upon and where one was among friends.

Having quickly refused her grandfathers offer to come live at Great Smials (she loved her Took family with all heart but she had no intention of living amongst a 120 or so of her closest family members, thank you very much) she had enlisted the help of her cousin Drogo in finding another place to settle. Perhaps because Drogo was rather fond of one of the sisters of the Master of Buckland, the choice quickly fell on a small house not far from Brandy Hall. Crickhollow really was ideal: somewhat remote but not so much that she and her daughter would be living as hermits. Mot importantly for Bilbo, it was quite a long way from the East Road, where an ever-increasing number of dwarrow was making their way eastward, called by words borne upon raven wings of a once lost kingdom reclaimed.

Her decision to quit Bag End had been bitter but Bilbo had to admit that it was quite possible one of the best decisions she had ever made. That fact become increasingly apparent as her daughter grew up.

At first glance, there was nothing which would distinguish Bellis from any other hobbit her age. Sure, she was a little tall, standing nearly a head taller than her mother but then there was enough Fallohide blood on her grandmothers’ side to account for that, if anyone asked. It was only if you took a long, good look at her that you would start to notice that something was _off_.

First there was the ears, which were perfectly normal in size, but which lacked the distinct tips of most hobbits, being rounded instead. Then there was the downy fuzz that grew along her jawline making its sharpness even more pronounced. Her ears and the soft down on her cheeks, even her leaner and stronger build could be overlooked, were it not for the feet. Her feet that were almost hairless and so soft that she had to wear thin boots of doeskin when venturing out in winter or on a longer journey. That could not be explained and the few times Bilbo had been forced to travel with her girl in colder weather or on longer trips that took them by the larger roads, many would point and stare. And not just the hobbits: Bilbo could recall a particularly panic inducing trip where a dwarrow she did not recognise, had looked at her booted daughter with a sort of light interest. It had been momentary, but Bilbo had resolutely grabbed her daughter and hurried in the other direction.

Thus, as the sun started to set on an otherwise ordinary April afternoon and her daughter still had not come back from her visit to Brandy Hall, Bilbo tried to will herself into feeling the normal sort of parental distress. Worry she must, of course, she was a mother! But after all, her daughter was given to flights of fancy, often disappearing for hours on end to go wandering or sit beneath the trees – a habit that was not curbed by the fact that she had the most unhobbitish practice of forgetting mealtimes. Bilbo tried to tell herself all these things, as the sun began to set beneath the trees. But in the quickening twilight her fears, her true fear, that something terrible and irreversible had happened to her daughter, began to take form with the shadows in the parlour.

When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she stood up suddenly, wrapped herself in a shawl and ran from the door. As she turned unto the path she could not help but call out her daughters name. She knew she was being silly, that her daughter would probably be standing there on the path to the house, arms full of wildflowers with a puzzled look at her distress. Yes, that would be the case, she would have lost track of time and found a bed of flowers or a pair of squirrels somewhere that she would simply had had to stop and look at. And she would look at Bilbo and shake her head and smile and cock her eyebrow, just as he always did, and call her silly and they would walk back toward the house and her fears, that nagging fear, that something, someone would come for her daughter would be quenched, for now-

Bilbo’s toe caught on something on the ground and she stopped to shake whatever it was off. Her heart stopped. Caught around her big toe was the silken drawstring of a reticule. She recognised the fabric, the embroidered flowers and jumping foxes, so cleverly and minutely done by her own daughters’ clever fingers.

Bilbo wasted no time screaming for her daughter. She ran, faster than she had done when she been chased by those hellish wolves all those years ago. She ran towards Brandy Hall, roaring for someone to help.

As she ran, feelings of the deepest anguish and panic were intermingled with the realisations that were lining up inside her head, their clarity almost surprising her.

First, that she knew exactly who had taken her daughter.

Second, that she would fight till her last breath to get her back.

And third, that if she was right about the first, then there would be nothing, not even Eru himself, that could save Thorin Oakenshield from her wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, but I'll be back soon with another, I promise!
> 
> And thank you for all the lovely comments and encouragements!


	4. In which Knut muses upon the concept of justice

The hobbit had stopped thrashing about in her place at the front of the saddle after three days. Knut was thankful for it, both because it made it easier for him to steer his pony and because it helped ease the feeling that what he was doing was wrong.

Knut, son of Algut, son of Helmut would under normal circumstances consider himself an honourable and upstanding dwarrow. He did his best to do right by his kin and kith, to live according to Durin’s law and to not sully the name of his forebears.

He had the distinct and unpleasant notion that he was doing a downright lousy job at all three right now.

Of course, this whole thing had started with him wanting do to right by his third principle. Helge and Knuts grandfather’s Helmun and Helmut had been brothers. As such they were rather close kin, as far as blood goes. As far as actual affiliation went, well Knut had third cousins twice removed in the Iron Hills that he had spoken to more often than Helge. That was until he had approached him that day, nearly a month ago. A day that Knut was quite sure he would rue sometime soon.

It had all sounded so luring and easy when Helge had proposed it to him: steal the thieving hobbit who had stolen from the King under the Mountain (and by default all of Durin’s folk, as Helge had animatedly explained) and deliver her to his judgment. The chance of doing right by not just his king but all his people had been enough to convince him, along with the chance of seeing Erebor and, if Helge’s suggestions were to be believed, being richly rewarded for their daring feat. It had been enough to convince three other dwarrow with whom Knut was vaguely acquainted. Siggi, Einar and Gunnar were all as young and eager for purpose and proof of their worth as Knut. But there was an added incentive in his case.

Though Knut had not been old enough to witness the fall of Erebor, he had been old enough to witness the slow fall of his family. It was not as dramatic as the descend of his father’s estranged cousin Halfdan had been but rather a slow decline that somehow seemed the more pitiful of the two to Knut. His own grandfather Helmut had not been as renowned as his brother Helmun, but he had been respected, nonetheless. But when Mad King Thror fell before the gates of Moria and thousands of dwarrow fell with him, all those that had supported his decisions and aided in his madness fell from favour too. Knut’s family had opted to stay in Ered Luin even after Erebor had been reclaimed, tainted by association and fallen from favour as they were. Knut would be lying if he claimed that him going along with Helge was not in part to regain the honour lost to his family.

But now, Knut was beginning to doubt whether he was going to lose them the last shred of honour and pride that they possesed. It had all sounded so easy, when Helge had spoken of it. Actually doing the deed had been easy too: it took them barely two weeks of hanging around taverns in and around the edges of the Shire, casually enquiring after the name ‘Baggins’ before the word ‘Hobbitton’ was spoken. Once there it had taken them half an hour to be directed to a place called ‘The Hill’ (Knut had sniggered as they had descended what was barely a mound) where a very cross woman had informed them that ‘that good for naught Bilbo Baggins had removed herself to some hole outside Brandy Hall, as was only right’ before slamming the round door in their faces. From there it got a bit trickier: travelling along the well-travelled roads where dwarrow were often seen was not the same as riding into a more sparsely populated area and asking after a specific hobbit. But by luck and bribery they had actually managed to get the name of the house in which the hobbit lived, and have it pointed out to them on a map by some farmhand eager for the extra coins.

They had observed the small house from a place of hiding all morning. It was so still that, had it not been for the smoke in the chimney and an open window here and there, Knut would have thought it unoccupied. They grew restless and had begun speaking of moving closer or even entering the house when a lone figure, distinctly female and distinctly a hobbit, had stepped out. Knut could feel Helge’s agitation and excitement as he gripped tightly at his shoulder, but they all restrained themselves. They could not just go chasing after her in case she escaped them. No, they would need to lure the hobbit into a trap, an ambush of some sort. It took them not half an hour to figure it out and to position themselves. And then they had waited. Knut was starting to fear that the hobbit would not return at all and that they would have to devise a new plan, when he heard light footsteps of the hobbit and the heavier ones of Helge, coming towards him. He had not been the one to grab her nor knock her out, but had been in charge of getting her on his pony and keeping her from 

They had celebrated their success that night as best as they could, what with camping out in the wilds and the thrashing and protestations of the hobbit accompanying their celebration. Knut hadn’t said anything, but it had made him uneasy. They had removed the sack they had covered her face with but had bound her hands and feet and left her to sit up against a tree someway from the fire. But the distance didn’t block out her sobbing and at one point Helge had instructed Knut to find something to gag the treacherous bitch with so that they could get some peace. He had obeyed the order, regardless that he felt uneasy about it and had fetched a strip of linen from his pack that would serve the purpose and made his way towards the hobbit. As he came closer, he realised that the sobbing had stopped and as he looked down on her, she was staring pleadingly at him, face red and swollen and eyes filled with tears.

“Are you going to strangle me? Please, sir, I haven’t done anything, I swear it.” she had whispered hoarsely.

Knut didn’t reply at first: Helge had instructed them to speak only in khuzdul in front of the hobbit. But the smallness of her voice and the terror in her eyes made him throw a quick glance over his shoulder before he knelt down in front of her.

“No.” he replied simply and gagged the hobbit, a tad gentler than he had first intended.

Knut had never given Bilbo Baggins much thought. She had been there like a vague presence in his conscience ever since the tales of the reclamation of Erebor had reached Ered Luin. He supposed he harboured the same hatred that all of Durin’s folk harbored towards her, where her name was seldom spoken and if it was, it was usually not her name but ‘burglar’, ‘traitor’ even ‘whore’ and only to curse her for her deeds. In Knut’s mind she had always been some goblin-like imp with long fingers and a insidious smile, reaching for that which was not hers. He had seen hobbits before, of course, and knew that they looked nothing like that, but he had a hard time reconciling the traitorous trickster of the stories with the gentle, odd-looking people he had seen on his travels.

He had an even harder time reconciling with it now that she was placed in front of him in the saddle, her silence welcome but foreboding. He had not imagined her to be quite so young: she must have been very young indeed when the quest for Erebor took place and for a moment Knut feels almost angry with Thorin Oakenshield, for entrusting what must have been a barely grown hobbit with the fate of their people and for thinking she was capable at all. Knut thinks of his little sister Rut, who is barely past thirty and on how she would fare against a dragon and snorts. He decides to let go of his anger for Thorin Oakenshield too: it is not Knut’s place to judge his superiors and it was not Oakenshields fault that he had been tricked by the words and wills of a wizard. And come to think on it, he could not blame the king if he had been taken in by the hobbit too. When she wasn’t crying and her face not red and swollen from it, she looked almost pretty for someone with no beard to speak of. Her hair was a scandal too, with nothing but a ribbon to keep it up, but it curled and looked soft to the touch. And her eyes – well, Knut had taken to avoid gazing directly at them for he always felt a surge of pity for her when he did, expressive as they were.

Even though Helge had offered to make Einar or Gunnar ride with her, Knut had shrugged and agreed to take her even though he missed the ease of having no one else on his pony. He didn’t know what made him do it. It wasn’t protectiveness, no, such a feeling he could not feel for the woman who had stolen the most precious treasure of Durin’s folk and given it to their enemies. As Helge had imprinted them on their first night, this was justice. When Siggi, whom Knut was growing less and less fond of as day gone by, had kicked the hobbit and hissed traitor at her in westron, Helge had to his credit stopped him: this was justice for all of Durin’s folk but it was the king’s justice most of all. They would let it be up to him to decide it’s form.

That hadn’t stopped Siggi from shoving her a bit too harshly when helping her off the pony and binding her hands and feet too hard. Knut saw it, but didn’t say anything, only knelt by the hobbit and eased the ropes when no one was looking. She would look at him with questioning eyes that he avoided. He could not bear her scrutiny.

Knut had no idea why he did it. It was not protectiveness, it was not pity but there was something, deep within his stomach that made him feel wrong about this whole ordeal. He felt he was a dwarfling again, having knowingly done something wrong but convincing himself it was not so and failing. In his sleep he would keep seeing his mother. She didn’t look angry but disappointed. He tried to convince himself that he felt guilty for having not said goodbye and it almost worked. But there remained that basic, sickening feeling that he, that they were all, making a mistake. Perhaps that’s why when the hobbit in front of him whimpers after a sudden jolt, he leans forward and murmur quietly in westron.

“I’m sorry”.

Knut doesn’t know if he’s apologising for the rough road or the fact that she is here at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments!


	5. In which Thorin continues having a not very good day

“Thank you!”

Thorin is surprised at both the vehemence in the girl’s (and it is a girl, he can tell after his initial shock) voice and the surety of it. In truth he is surprised that the girl is capable of speech at all, disheveled and distressed as she looks with dark circles under her eyes and her hair a matted mess of dark curls. She looked half-wild, deranged truly, and Thorin is even more astonished when she continues speaking.

“I’ve tried telling them since Bree, but the bastards wouldn’t listen. I thought for a while they didn’t understand me at all, they kept talking that nonsense but that fellow” she points over her shoulder with her still bound hands at the young dwarrow who had unveiled her and who looks as if the girl was describing her plan to geld him in great detail, “obviously knows how to speak westron as he deigned to talk to me twice in the last months. Much obliged to you, Canute or what ever your name is.” She does a little mock curtsy in his direction and the young dwarrow looks as if he might faint at the attention.

Thorin is still reeling from the shock of having been seconds away from being reunited with Bilbo only to be faced with a half-wild looking halfling who is managing to be quite more passive aggressive in this situation than Thorin himself would have been. He is torn between relief that it was not Bilbo after all and the distinct and unpleasant feeling that a kidnapped Bilbo Baggins would be preferable to dealing with and discovering who this girl is.

“You’re… not Bilbo Baggins?” Helge’s voice has lost any of its sticky charm. Instead his voice has taking on a nearly hysterical alarm. The girl looks at him with so much contempt that Thorin is surprised Helge does not recoil from her.

“For the last time, you dim-witted dwarf, no! I’ve tried telling you a hundred times but you lot have been gagging and ignoring me since we were still west of Bree!”

The girl’s revelation leaves a bad taste in Thorin’s mouth. To think that some random halfling girl had been bound up and dragged halfway across Middle Earth by a group of people whose actions Thorin in the end was accountable for, people who had stolen her in his name. Mahal have mercy, the diplomatic repercussions would be disastrous. Oh, he was going to strangle Helge!

 “Well?” The hobbit demands, “Aren’t you going to do anything? Help me? Or will I have to gnaw away these ropes myself?” She lifts her tied hands and looks expectantly up at Thorin with one eyebrow raised. For a moment Thorin has the distinct feeling that he has been on the receiving end of that look before.

Her words push Thorin out of his state of shock. He orders one of the guards to help her untie the ropes, he makes Balin clear the hall of all unnecessary spectators and orders the remaining guards to keep a weather eye on Helge’s young companions, three of which tried to sneak out when the rest of the onlookers were cleared. As a last impulse he asks one of the court scribes, there to document the audiences to fetch the Lady Dís. He doesn’t yet know how he will solve this mess but he has a feeling that he will have need of his sister, if only because she might be better equipped to deal with raging and clearly traumatised females, even if they were hobbits.

While his orders are being carried out, the girl stands forlornly in her spot, massaging her now unbound wrists (Thorin tries to stop himself from throttling Helge then and there when he sees the angry red marks left behind by the ropes). She is eying her surroundings warily and has clearly lost some of her bravado in the aftermath of her outburst. Exchanging a meaningful glance with Thorin, Balin approaches the girl carefully and speaks to her in his kindliest voice, the one that can placate even the most puffed-up lords and courtiers.

“I am deeply sorry for this… misunderstanding, lass. It is clear that you have been brought here against your will and unjustly so. I cannot imagine the ordeal you have gone through but as you can probably tell, it was not done with his majesty’s knowledge or at his will. But fear not: we will see to having this… conundrum solved.” he says the last word through clenched teeth and with a sharp look at the now despondent Helge before he continues. “The wrongs that have been done to you will be set right and those responsible will be held so. Do not fret, you are under his majesty’s care and protection now, miss?”

Despite the talk of debts and justice, it’s all said in such a kind and grandfatherly manner that the girl immediately blurts out her name (“Bellis”) in a voice that is much smaller and younger than before. Balin even repeats the name, taking her hand and bowing over it in a formal greeting, a gesture that leaves the girl looking equally perplexed and pleased.

Thorin is just about to suggest that the girl be removed before they proceed with questioning Helge and his men, to spare her the distress when one of Helge’s dwarrows, a scraggy blonde youth, throws himself forward.

“Your majesty, please! We didn’t know, sir. It was all him!” he points at Helge, who is still unresponsive in his clear panic.

Thorin holds up a hand to signal for the youth to be quiet.

“What is your name, boy?” he asks.

“Siggi, son of Snorri.” the boy says miserably and almost reluctantly, clearly not excited at having to drag his father and kin into the mess. Thorin cannot blaim him: he knows of Snorri, son of Sigurd, who has a reputation as a fierce and loyal warrior. The same words clearly don’t describe his son.

“What was your part in this…” ‘absolute shit-quest’ he almost says but then realises that is perhaps not the most diplomatic nor proper thing to say and then settles for, “journey?”

He tries not to cringe as the hobbit girl cocks her head and lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him and really, where has he seen that look before? He is interrupted in his musings by the youth.

“Master Helge approached me with the offer, said it would be a noble and good thing to do, that it was your majesty’s own particular wish that we carry out this mission, sir. I swear, we had no idea, and he was so sure it was the right hobbit, we thought we had the right house: there’s only one Baggins in Buckland, that’s what the lady in the house on the hill said. And- and Knut was the one who gagged her, not me! Please, my king, we only wanted to do the right thing, to deliver Baggins to you, he said it was what you wanted: to teach that traitor bitch a lesson-“

For a moment Thorin thinks it’s himself that’s shouting but then he realises it’s the girl, who’s flinging herself at Siggi, another of the young dwarrow, the one Siggi had identified as Knut, holding her back.

_“Don’t you dare talk about my ma like that!”_

Thorin Oakenshield feels as if he is back in the jaws of that infernal beast of Azog’s again, having all the air leave him as he’s being torn back and forth. He stares transfixed at the girl, at **Bilbo’s** girl, as she tries to wrestle her way out of Knut’s grip and continue her quest of scratching Siggi’s eyes out and he nearly laughs at the fact that he did not realise it. The curve of the nose, the fullness of the lips, the curl of her hair – it’s all Bilbo, even her face and her manner is so like her mother that it’s like a knife to Thorin’s heart. Her accent is rougher than her mothers and she is fiercer too, but whether that is due to stress or circumstance is difficult to say. Whoever sired her, had left little of themselves in this girl. Oh and that twists the knife that her resemblance to Bilbo had plunged into him, the fact that this girl and her very existence proved that Bilbo had moved one, had taken up with someone else, had loved someone else (as was her right, that treacherous voice of reason within him says, you banished her, _you let her go_ ).

The absolute chaos both within Thorin and within the hall is brought to a sudden halt by the arrival of Lady Dís and oh, Thorin has never been so grateful for the dramatic way his sister has of entering the room, striding in and commanding everyone’s attention by her sheer presence.

“What is the meaning of this?” she says, sounding like a schoolmaster that has just come across a classroom of ill-behaved dwarrowlings.

The room is silent save for the labored breaths of Bellis, breaths that turn quicker and more superfluous as the moments drag on. And then Thorin has the absolute terrible pleasure of finding out that Bellis Baggins takes after her mother in her crying too.

“Oh, sweet girl, what is the matter?” The strict schoolmaster gone, Dís is by the girl’s side in a second, taking her by the shoulder.

“I want to go home” the girl says through heaving breaths and a thick voice, trying to stop her tears from falling and quickly failing, “I want to go home to my ma and Frodo. I don’t want to be here, they just took me and didn’t tell me nothing and then they dragged me here and I was so scared they were going to hurt me for what ma did and and- I just want to go home. I want my home, I want my ma, I want to go now-“ she made to free herself of Dís’ arms and stumbling towards the doors, but Dís pulled her back, facing her.

“Shh, sweet girl.” Dís was wiping at the tears forming tracks in the dirt on the girl’s face. “That sounds like a terrible thing that has happened to you, a terrible thing that I’m sure will be rectified.” The last bit is said through gritted teeth and she is glaring sideways at Thorin. “Whatever your ma may or may not have done, no one here is angry with you. You have been very brave, girl, so very brave to have come all this way. You’ll see your ma soon again and your- Fodo, was it? You’ll see them soon again. But you’re in no state to be leaving right now. You’ve been so brave for so long. You deserve to rest.”

At these words Bellis finally succumbs to inconsolable weeping, allowing Dís to embrace her and gently coaxing her out of the room. Before they exit, Dís turns her head and throws Thorin and Balin a look, one that clearly communicates that she is not finished with them and that they would soon be hearing her opinion of them and this whole ordeal in no uncertain terms. Then they are gone and Thorin can barely muster the presence of mind to order that Helge and his compatriots be thrown in the cells. None of them, not even Siggi, complains. Balin attempts to speak to him but Thorin dismisses him too, ordering him to gather the members of his erstwhile company (those that would still speak too him at least). As Balin leaves, Thorin cannot shake the image of Dïs and Bellis leaving the room, cannot stop thinking of the fact that he hadn’t been able to tell Dís and Bellis’ hair apart as they leaned against each other, that they had nearly been of the same height.

That Bellis, Bilbo’s daughter, had been wearing thin leather _boots_.

Bilbo was going to **kill** him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And were back in Thorin's POV.   
> Again, thank you so much for your lovely comments - I really enjoy your kind words and your speculations.


	6. In which a burglar brings down a mountain

It had taken Bilbo two excruciating days of preparations and planning before she could set out in search of her daughter. Had it been up to her she would have saddled Rorimac Brandybucks fastest pony and made off at once but her own state of shock and the firm insistence of her Brandybuck cousins had convinced her to at least postpone until the next morning. Her cousin Esmeralda had risen from childbed and handed her newborn off to a cousin before setting to work, charging a younger nephew with riding to Tookborough with the news and orders to return with her brother Paladin, if possible. Meanwhile her husband Saradoc had organised a search of the surrounding area, even sending messengers as far as Stock with request that the locals search for Bellis there. Bilbo had tried to explain to them that it would be futile, that her daughter had likely been taken to Bree but Old Rory had pressed a rather large glass of Old Winyards into her hand and insisted that her daughter had probably got lost and mumbled that it wouldn’t be the first time young Bellis had returned too late for supper, odd as it was. Bilbo had been too distressed to naysay him and had fallen into a fitful sleep on a chaise late in the night.

It wasn’t until the early hours of the next morning that any actual progress was made. Bilbo awoke from her brief sleep with a crick in the neck at the return of the messenger from Tookborough. It clear became apparent that the messenger had not adhered to Esmeralda’s strict instruction in seeking out her brother but had rather proclaimed the news loudly to all upon his arrival at Great Smials. The news had caused such outrage that no less than 30 or so Tooks had followed the messenger back not least among them the great matriarch Lalia Took. Lalia was an outspoken and opinionated woman at the best of times, staunch and disagreeable at the worst and her arrival was met with equal cheer and consternation.

It quickly became apparent that she, unlike most of the Took relatives who had followed her, did not view this incident as an excuse for a social call and a grand First Breakfast. Instead she demanded to be taken straight to Bilbo and sat down with her cousin for more than half an hour, listening quite seriously to the story that Bilbo had tried to tell her Brandybuck relatives the night before. She had said very little and had only clapped her cousins cheek in response when she was done with her tale, which was touching as well as embarrassing to Bilbo. Lalia was, after all only seven years her senior, although she looked as if she could have been thirty years older.

Lalia had then gone into the largest dining room at Brandy Hall that was full to bursting with Tooks, Brandybucks and other locals who had participated in the search and was now enjoying a well-deserved breakfast. Lalia had smashed a rather ugly but apparently priceless vase to get everyone’s attention, declared all of them fools, the Old master of Buckland the greatest fool of all and explained in blunt but vague terms that they would need volunteers to go on a journey across the Misty Mountains to fetch back Bilbo Baggins her daughter. There had been silence for several long moments before a tirade of questions and protests rained down on Lalia. She silenced all of them with a gesture of her hand, saying that they had no time to sit and bicker while one of their kinsmen were being taken from their homeland against their will. Then she had repeated her call for volunteers.

The first to do that was Saradoc, which surprised no one: he and Bellis was of the same age and had been playmates as children. For a while he had even thought of her as a prospective bride but his parents had thought it an ill match and, as he grew older and she did not, his regard for her had changed from that of a potential suitor to that of a more brotherly nature. His wife Esmeralda immediately put her foot down, however: he had only just become a father and it was therefore reckless of him to go on such a journey. Many voiced their agreement and in the end,  it was decided that his younger brother, Merimac, who was also an old friend of Bellis’ and a decent and sensible hobbit besides, would go in his place. Esmeralda even suggested that her own brother Paladin come along for the journey too, to compensate for the fact that she was keeping her husband at home. Lalia heartily agreed to the suggestion of a Took coming along and so it was decided that Bilbo and her companions would set out from Tookborough later that day.

Bilbo had been silent throughout most of the journey, mind set upon the single object of getting her daughter back. She paid very little attention to her travelling companions but were thankful for their help nonetheless, especially as they proved surprisingly competent at travelling. She had been quite skeptical when the plan had been revealed to her and insisted that she could do very well on her own. But Lalia had silenced her and had pressed a preposterously large back of gold coins into her hands, along with a pearl necklace that Bilbo recognised as a family heirloom. “For the ransom, if they claim one.” she had declared grimly. Bilbo had been gobsmacked but so touched that she had thrown her arms around the other woman before mounting her pony and setting off. She hadn’t the heart to tell the proud woman that the people she would be negotiating for her daughter with would laugh in her face at the Took’s wealth.

Her travelling companions had proved the least of her worries. She had only had to answer a dozen curious questions from Paladin about why a company of dwarves would kidnap her daughter before Merimac had diverted his attention and had only had to stop the latter from falling into a ravine twice. Which had of course left her with ample time to fret over her daughter and how she would get her back.

Nearly three months of travel, and she was still not closer to an answer to the question. She had gone over at least a dozen approaches in her head from bribery to burglary to begging but none of them seemed realistic to her. She had wrecked her brain trying to explain how Thorin had found out, but it had brought her no closer to how she would get Bellis back. In the end the solution (and it wasn’t really a solution, only a hope) had come to her at she had lain awake at night, watching the sparks of a dying fire. She had remembered sitting in front of a similar fire many years ago, idly listening to Gloin chattering about dwarven marriage.

_“… Of course since there are so few of them, dwarrowdams are held in much esteem. If a dam decides to leave the hall of her husband or any male relative, her word is always heard first if he complains. If she has a bairn outside of marriage, whether that marriage is broken or never existed, the child belongs to her and her only. I remember my own grandfathers’ sister, Gyrin who had a child out of wedlock…”_

An appeal to the laws of dwarven society, that Thorin had transgressed against them by stealing her child ( _their_ child, a treacherous voice within her whispers) is her only hope. But would they listen to her? Would she be exempt from this law because she was not a dwarrowdam? Would Thorin be because he was a king? Would they even let her within the mountain or was she still banished? The last thought had given her great anguish, but she had reminded herself that she was not friendless not even as far from home as she were. There were still those who named her Elf-friend and she would be able to call upon lord Elrond’s help if needs be – he would not have sheltered her during her pregnancy only to desert her in her hour of need, she was sure of it. She is not lying to herself when she thinks that she would have no qualms with calling upon those Thorin Oakenshield claim as enemies if he kept her daughter from her.

Her resolve both strengthens and weakens as the mountain draws nearer. Her longing for her daughter and her rage at those who had stolen her battles with her fear of facing the ghosts of her pasts and her own cowardice at having to own up to the mistakes she has made. But in the end the former is what drives her forward until she is standing before the gates of Erebor. She realised what a pitiful sight they must be, a retired burglar and her green but devoted hobbit companions. She suppresses a hysterical laughter as she approaches the guards and sends a silent prayer to the green lady for strength and a plea for her to reason with her husband, the Smith, one of whose own she would soon be reasoning with.

_I hope you’re ready, Thorin. If you did steal my girl, if you try to keep her from me, not even Aüle can protect you._

The guards at the gate stare at them as though they were goblins or similarly obscene creatures. When she states her name and her cause however, their countenance change from incredulity to hostility.

“I know who you are, traitor. You are not welcome within these halls. Begone! and Durin’s fury be upon you and all who go with you!” one of them snarls, hand tightening around the hilt of the sword hanging at his belt. Bilbo can feel her companions stiffen, can even hear Merimac exclaim a shocked _“well, I’ve never”_. She doesn’t budge, however.

“Traitor or not, I am here to see your king. He has taken something of mine, and I intend to get it back. Now kindly allow us to pass or you will see just how treacherous I can be, when I bring a host of elves down upon you!” she says in a sickly-sweet voice that only accentuates the venom in her words. Her voice infuriates the guard and his sword is half out of it’s sheath when a voice rings out behind them.

“Runar, halt!”

The guard immediately stops what he’s doing and turns and bows to the newcomer. He is older, hair sparser and beard greyer than Bilbo remembers but it is unmistakably him.

“Let them pass, Runar.” Dwalins voice is as rough as ever.

“But, my lord, she’s- the traitor, she’s-“ the guard objects.

“None of your concern anymore. Return to your station. King’s orders”

“But-“

“Are you telling me that you know better than the king?” Dwalin growls and the guard immediately bows again and reluctantly let’s Bilbo and her companions pass.

“Never thought I’d see you here again, halfling.” Dwalin says as Bilbo stands in front of him.

“Never thought I’d had to return here again.” She retorts. “But you know why I had to come.”

“Aye.” He says quietly and her heart leaps with the confirmation that her daughter is here, so near her. They eye each other carefully for a minute before she wraps her arms around his much taller form in a fierce, short hug. The action takes him a bit off guard and he barely have time to return it before she has withdrawn from him.

“Take me to him.” She says simply and her tone leaves Dwalin no choice but to comply.

She is much to preoccupied with her racing heart to truly appreciate the transformation that Erebor has undergone since she was here last. Her mind only registers the astounding amount of people they meet on their way that somehow makes the vastness of the hall seem less so and the fact that the place no longer reeks of dragon. Dwalin guide her and her companions, who are trying to keep up transfixed as they are by their surroundings through the main halls towards the west wing, rather than the throne room for which Bilbo is grateful. The situation at hand is uncomfortable enough as it is without being a public spectacle. ‘At least my second disgrace here will be private’ she thinks sardonically and nearly collides with Dwalin’s back as he stops in front of a large door.

“Wait here.” He orders before entering without knocking. Through the ajar door Bilbo can hear muffled voices stilling as Dwalin enters the room. She can hear Dwalin say something and then a voice is answering and gods, she would recognise the burr of _that_ voice anywhere. Unable to resist any longer, she flings open the door and charges into the room.

She is so surprised to see the entirety of the erstwhile Company of Thorin Oakensheild in front of her that the mixture of fury and elation she had felt while waiting on the other side of the door leaves her immediately.

The sight of Bofur’s silly hat (more patchy than ever), Nori’s ridiculous hair (now more brown than auburn but still meticulous) and Kíli’s astonished smile (now framed by a thick beard) is enough to nearly send her to tears but it is the sight of Thorin (older, greyer, still painfully handsome) that stills them.

“Thorin.” She says simply, voice filled with a sort of wonder and a surprise at seeing him as if she hadn’t been travelling for months knowing that she would.

“Bilbo.” Thorin voice is much more emotive and for a moment Bilbo confuses the emotion for anger but then she realises that is relief. She has no time to dwell on that fact, on the apprehensive joy of recognition on Thorin’s face because actually seeing it makes the fact that she came here seeking one that resemble it so acute that the pain of it nearly makes her wince. .

“Thorin,” she repeats and this time her voice is much more intense, fierce with motherly love and longing. “Where is my daughter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I know I'm dragging out the reunions and revelations but this continued to drag on as I was writing it and continuing in Bilbo's POV just didn't work for the rest of it. But you'll be getting one more chapter than I originally planned so, yay?
> 
> Also, regarding Saradoc and Bellis: I figured since Bellis is half-dwarrow she would have a slightly longer lifespan than most hobbits and as a result would also age slower. So while she and Saradoc and Merimac grew up as playmates, at some point Bellis aging would have slowed to such a degree that there was an "age gap" between them. I imagine Saradoc and Merimac to be closer to their thirties while Bellis is around 20.


	7. In which Balin contemplates retirement

Balin, son of Fundin had spent the better part of his life in service to the Kings of Durin’s folk. He had served under two kings (technically three but Thorin’s father Thrain had only been king for a half a day before he went missing) and liked to imagine that he had done his best, despite the unfortunate circumstances that had plagued his tenure as adviser. He had endured dragons and exile but also reclamation and prosperity and had remained steadfast in both defeat and triumph.

Which is why it almost amuses him that it should be a hobbit (well, two hobbits) that, for the first time in nearly two centuries, makes him contemplate retirement.

Of course, the hobbit is not solely to blame for the absolute mess of a situation that has turned Balin’s life upside down in the last five days. First there was of course Helge and his compatriots (Mahal curse the first and have mercy upon the rest) who had carried out what can only be described as the most botched kidnapping in the third age of this world. He had tried to question the fools once they had been thrown into the holding cells but had quickly realised that he would not be getting anything useful out of them. Truly, how any of them had managed to cross half of Middle Earth without realising that the hobbit they had stolen was half a century too young to be the right one and that her protestations might be genuine, was beyond him. The youths, all Blue Mountain-born, at least had the excuse of juvenile folly – it was clear they had been acting under false impressions. He would try to convince Thorin to limit their punishment. The thought of the four lads all losing their left hands, as was the usual punishment for stealing, and having their beards shorn left a bad taste in his mouth.

The question of what was to be done about Helge was at the same time clearer and yet more complicated. He was obviously guilty of not just stealing but also of making the youths complicit in his crimes under false pretence. A case could also be made of him having carried out the king’s justice without lawful permission to do so. But the worst of his crimes was the fact that he had, unknowingly but that mattered little, stolen a child from its mother. Even if said child was the daughter of a supposed traitor that was not even a dwarrowdam, this was a crime that would not be forgiven nor looked upon lightly. The situation was complicated by the fact that Helge had become catatonic upon the revelation that he had stolen the wrong hobbit. The guards told him that he would sit apathetically, sometimes muttering under his breath about hobbits and royal pardons but otherwise not showing any sign that he knew what was happening around him. That posed a dilemma for Balin, since the laws of Durin were vague about whether a dwarrow not in his right mind could be charged with and found guilty of a crime. If it was murder or something equally horrendous the law clearly said that they could, but it made no mention of what to do with kidnappers who had lost their minds after the fact. Balin had spent many late hours in the last couple of days, trying to figure out the best course but to little avail. In truth, there was little he could do before the injured party showed up.

But now, as Bilbo stands before him, looking so eerily like herself in a stained travelling coat that Balin almost thinks her a ghost come to haunt them, the headache that seems to have taken permanent hold just behind his eyes in the last few days, intensifies. Before, he had been able to pretend that the law would be his biggest problem but now he knows that the personal repercussions from this whole conundrum would be much more difficult.

It had not taken him many moments to surmise who exactly had fathered their erstwhile burglars’ child. If the mop of dark curls, the topaz eyes and the familiar, stormy glare they were exuding hadn’t given it away, well, the fact that she was wearing boots and was almost off height with her kidnappers would have. Even before she had blurted out the truth in her rage Balin knew that here stood the child of Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield.

_Oh, what a fine mess indeed._

He hadn’t confronted his king with the truth at once. He could tell that Thorin had had the exact same realisation as he and was know reeling from it. Instead he had gone to summon his former companions and told them what had transpired, waving off their astonished exclamations and questions with a promise that they would discuss the issue later. Then he had gone to Lady Dís chambers where he rightly surmised that she had taken the girl.

When he entered, he saw the girl lying on a low chaise in front of the hearth, her head in Dís’ lap and sleeping fitfully. Her face was still swollen and frowning and Dís was stroking her matted hair. She spoke to Balin in a soft tone he hadn’t heard her use since Fíli and Kíli were babes in arms.

“Another fine mess my brother has made, hm? I think this one rivals the time he unleashed a dragon upon the Lakemen forty years ago. I was beginning to miss him fucking things up.” Despite her softness of voice, she couldn’t keep the mockery out of it.

“I hardly think this is his fault. Thorin didn’t kidnap the girl.” He replied innocently.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Balin, I’m not a fool, as you well know. This girl is my brother’s child, is she not?”

Balin sighed but nodded. Dís turned her attention back to the girl in her lap.

“Never thought I’d have a niece” she said wistfully. “I imagine I’ll be meeting her mother soon, too?”

“I haven’t seen Bilbo Baggins in nearly four decades, but it would be most unlike her if she wasn’t hot on her daughters’ heels. I’m quite certain we’ll be seeing her soon enough.”

Dís hummed. “Well, until she does, I’ll act in her stead. The poor thing has been through a lot, she’ll need someone taking care of her. It might be best if she’s left in peace too: the fewer people she’s faced with, the quicker she can recover.”

“The fewer people know she’s even here, the better” Balin grumbled. Dís threw him a nearly sympathetic look.

“Leave the girl’s well-being to me and I’ll gladly leave the damage control to you.”

Balin chuckled and made to leave the room but was stopped by Dís’ voice.

“What’s her name?” she asked, quietly.

“I believe her mother named her Bellis.”

“Oh.” Dís had abruptly stopped her ministrations to the girl’s hair, face suddenly as soft as her voice. “You think she...?”

“Could be. Could be a coincidence too, I suppose.” He had known Bilbo Baggins once, but that didn’t make him an expert on her reasoning for what she had named her child. Dís nodded and he quietly left the room.

Balin returned to the hall and was greeted by the sight of his twelve former companions. It hit him suddenly that they had not been reunited in full since many years ago. Invitations were always made for each of them to join the king on Durin’s Day but there would always be those who chose to be absent and it was quite clear in the faces that now stood before him, who that was. Bofur lacked his usual jolly mien, having instead replaced it with a look of skeptical scorn. Nori looked as inscrutable as always but with a hint of disapproval in his eyes. Kíli, tanned and just returned from a diplomatic journey to Dorwinion, smiled ferally at his uncle.

“Ah, Balin. How good of you to join us. Maybe you could explain to us, why someone decided to kidnap Bilbo’s child on my uncle’s behalf since he cannot seem to explain it himself.” Kíli said in a mockery of civility and sweetness.

Thorin, sitting upon the wooden throne with his head in his hands sighed.

“Kíli, lad, your uncle had nothing to do with-“

“No! Don’t you dare defend him. Don’t you dare!” Kíli was suddenly roaring with anger, pointing first towards Balin and then towards his uncle. “He did this! He cursed her and he banished her, and he didn’t do nothing to get her back. Why do you think those people still call her a traitor? Call her _a treacherous whore_?” Thorin winced but Kíli did not relent. “Do you think any of those bastards would have taken the trouble of kidnapping Bilbo’s daughter if he hadn’t allowed it to happen by doing **nothing**?”

Kíli’s face was livid in his rage and for a moment he reminded Balin so acutely of Frerin that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Then some of the anger seemed to leave him and his shoulders sagged. He turned towards his uncle and said in a voice that was much lower but all the more terrible.

“This is your fault, uncle. This is all our fault. We failed her, we failed Bilbo and now someone has taken her child and we have failed her again-“ Fíli was by his brother’s side before Kíli started weeping, wrapping his arms around him. Thorin rose from his seat and carefully approached him. He gently pried the two apart and grabbed Kíli by the shoulders, willing his nephew to look into his eyes that were shining with tears as well.

“You are right, sister-son. We have failed her, me more than anyone. But we will not fail her again.” Thorin had said and gently bumped his forehead against his. Then he gently let go of him and addressed the rest of the company. “We will all do right by her, I promise.”

The rest of the company had agreed and although Bofur had continued grumbling, his mood was much improved at the prospect of seeing their burglar again. In fact, most of the company seemed to spend the next few days anticipating her arrival with some degree of excitement though it was tainted by the constant reminder that it would not be a happy occasion.

The fact hits Balin like a hammer now that their former burglar stares up at them. Well, at Thorin really, whose name she states in disbelief and then quietly begs to.

“Thorin, where is my daughter?” Bilbo’s voice is so pained that it pains Balin himself.

Thorin takes a step towards Bilbo, his hands outstretched as if to calm her and the fact that Bilbo recoils from him makes a stab of guilt shoot through Balin.

“She is safe, Bilbo, _ghivashel,_ she is safe. I am so sorry-“

“Don’t!” Bilbo shouts and holds up a hand to stop Thorin in his tracks. “Don’t, Thorin, please. I can’t do this, not now, not ever. I just want my daughter, please, I don’t want-”

“ _Our_ daughter.” Thorin sounds both angry and pleading. The rest of the company shift uncomfortably at hearing the truth spoken though Balin is quite sure most of them had guessed it by now. Bilbo looks down at the ground. “Bilbo, I am so sorry for what has happened. Whatever else you think of me; you must believe that I had no part in it. I did not take her from you. But you can’t just take her away without a word. Not again.”

Bilbo’s head snaps up from where she had been staring at her feet, anger clear on her face.

“I can’t? Tell me, Thorin Oakenshield, tell me what I can’t do! She is my daughter, you took her from me, you have no right, no right to-“ she snarls but is interrupted by Thorin.

“I have no right?” he says, voice dangerously low. “She is mine too, Bilbo. You have kept me from her all these years but I beg you, no more.”

“I have kept her from you?” Bilbo said, voice both angry and incredulous. “You kept her from yourself! You banished me! You cast me out! What choice did I have?”.

“You could have told me! Bilbo, I know what I did to you cannot easily be forgiven, but you must have known that I would have taken my words and actions back if I had known!” Thorin is shouting now too.

“Would I?” Bilbo asks and her voice is almost a whisper. “Would I have known Thorin? How was I to know that you weren’t still in the thrall of that thrice-damned rock? That you wouldn’t take my daughter from me and banish me once more?”

“Bilbo, I would never… I could never hurt you that way.” Thorin’s anger has left him and his shoulders are slightly slumped.

“But you did.” Bilbo’s voice is thick with tears. “You banished me. You cast me out and you cursed me. I thought my heart was going to break from the pain. But then I found out that I was carrying Bellis.” She absentmindedly wrap her arms around her middle, where her daughter would have rested within her all those years ago. “And I decided then and there that nothing, no one, would ever hurt her. That I would keep her safe from anything. Even from her- from her father.”

It is the first time the truth has been acknowledged and Balin can see the effect of it on Thorin’s face even as he is still reeling from her words.

“Bilbo, I… “ he starts but is cut-off by Bilbo again.

“I gave away the Arkenstone to protect you, to protect all of you.” she looks up at the rest of the company who is staring at her in varying states of emotion and distress. “I cannot regret it for I cannot know whether we would have won the battle if I hadn’t. For forty years I’ve borne the regret, knowing you all hated me for what I had done, knowing I would never see you again. I did that to protect you.” Her voice suddenly turns fierce and her eyes return to Thorin. “But I promise you that I would do a lot worse, that I would bear twice the hatred to protect my daughter.”

“Bilbo.” Balin cannot recall having ever heard Thorin as soft-spoken as he is now. “Bilbo, I am sorry. I cannot take back my words and deeds all those years ago, no more than you can take back yours. I cannot undo the time that has passed. All I can do is regret. And when I saw her, Bilbo, when I knew- I have never regretted anything more in my life than not being there with her, with you both as I should have been. I will spend the rest of my life regretting that and knowing that I have no one but myself to blame. But Bilbo, please, I beg you. Do not take her away. I cannot lose her, lose you both again. Please.”

Bilbo is crying now and this time, when Thorin steps towards her with his arms outstretched she does not recoil but allows herself to be wrapped up in his arms.

Balin wipes a tear from his eye unashamedly and he can see that he is not the only one moved by the sight in front of him as Dori is weeping quite openly. He knows this is not over, that there are years of hurt, regrets, misunderstandings and grudges to work through. But at least there is time, and hope, now.

Balin smiles to himself. Perhaps he would stay on another decade or so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the grand reunion. I know alot of you would have liked to see Bilbo coming at Thorin with a pickaxe but alas, the orgy of violence I had planned would just not let itself be written. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos!


	8. In which Bellis battles a king

“Bellis, I’m no good at this. My stitches are all wonky. Can’t we do something else?”

Bellis peered up from her own embroidery to inspect Brynhildur’s tambour. She had to admit that the girl’s stitches were very uneven indeed, but she did not want to discourage her.

“Come now, Bryn. Your stitches look fine. It’ll be a quite fine-looking ram, if you just put some care into it.”

“It’s supposed to be a stag.” grumbled Brynhildur and Bellis had to hide both a blush and a half-suppressed laugh. Brynhildur groaned at her reaction and threw the tambour onto the floor and crossed her arms. Bellis couldn’t for the life of her understand how Brynhildur had gone through 77 years of her life without picking up a needle even once. The fact that she had seen her new friend weave strands of silver as thin as the hairs on her own head into the most beautiful jewellery the first time she met her, made her astonishment even greater. But while Brynhildurs short-fingered hands could make magic out of silver, they were apparently quite ill-suited to embroidery. The fact that she had a rather short temper did not help in the slightest. Bellis sighed: she had enjoyed the comfort that the familiar activity of stitching had brought her, but she also enjoyed Brynhildurs company more when she wasn’t cross. She put her own embroidery down, albeit more carefully.

“Well, what do you suggest we do instead?” she asked.

Brynhildur shrugged, apparently still not over her own ineptness.

“Anything that doesn’t involve getting your fingers pricked every damn minute” she continued sourly.

Bellis raised one eyebrow at her in the way that she had found out had a rather funny effect on the people here though she did not know why.

“I suppose stroking your ego is out of the question, then.”

Brynhildur poked her tongue at her, but then smiled wickedly. Both girls laughed.

“Let’s take a walk. There was some balcony you wanted to show me, was there not?” Bellis suggested and Brynhildur immediately agreed. Bellis picked up the green shawl that she had borrowed from Brynhildur and they made their way out of the chamber.

The last few days had been some of the strangest of Bellis life and she had chosen not to reflect upon the absurdity of her situation, instead trying to focus on the trivialities of everyday life, in fear of going mad. The lady Dís had been very kind towards her and had thankfully excluded most company from her. Bellis had very little desire nor was she in a state to meet the members of the company of Thorin Oakenshield, whom she had always thought of as her mother’s dwarves. She had relished in hearing tales of them as a child but as she grew and noticed that there were several holes in her mother’s stories and that it pained her when Bellis called out the inconsistencies, she had stopped requesting the tales. Something had obviously happened between her ma and her dwarves but Bellis was more kindhearted than curious by nature and had not wanted to pry.

Thankfully, Lady Dís had not left her to her maddening speculations but had made sure that she was kept quite busy. When she woke the day after her arrival, disoriented and drowsy after having slept the better part of a day, she was greeted by Lady Dís who had presented her with a bath and clean clothes. And more interestingly, she had also brought the owner of said clothes. Brynhildur was of the same age and stature as her and more importantly the daughter of one of her mothers’ former companions. As such, when Lady Dís had to procure both clothes and company suitable to her new charge, the choice had fallen quite naturally on Brynhildur. She was a good-natured and straightforward girl, who started chattering away the moment Lady Dís had left them to get acquainted which distracted Bellis from more unhappy thoughts. Bellis quickly found that she liked the girl exceedingly: she did not keep much female company at home since most of her childhood friends her age was settled with husbands and homes of their own now. She visited with them of course, but she did not have any close friendships with someone of her own age and sex. Bellis thought to herself that if she did, it would be with someone unostentatious and jolly like Brynhildur.

Brynhildur (or Bryn as she had quickly asked Bellis to call her) had shown her around the surroundings of lady Dís’ chambers, which were apparently in the western part of the dwarven kingdom. She had shown her the library and said that she was welcome to any books found there, which Bellis had declined (she had never been much of a reader, having had difficulty learning it as a child) in favour of asking Bryn for tales of her life and of Erebor. Bryn had perked up immediately and had continued her tour, pointing and chattering excitedly. When Bellis had asked her whether they might go outside or explore some other places in the city, Bryn had smiled apologetically and said that Lady Dís had asked her not to take Bellis any further. The last piece of information baffled her somewhat, but Bryn had taken her by the hand and led her back to Lady Dís chambers, questioning Bellis about her own interests along the way. Bellis had told her of her love of the outdoors, which Bryn had been rather puzzled by. Then she had told her of her penchant for embroidery and the high harp and Bryn had smiled widely and disappeared for the better part of an hour, returning with her arms full of silk thread and two young dwarrows carrying a harp between them (her brothers, she informed Bellis, but she could already tell by their ginger hair).

Bellis was speechless as she inspected the supplies: she had never seen copper thread so fine or needles so delicate. And the instrument! Bellis had never seen a thing of such beauty in her life: it looked to be made of solid gold and was inlaid with mother of pearl and precious jewels. According to Bryn it had belong to the treasure hoard of king Thór and had been claimed by an uncle of hers upon the reclamation. It was rarely played though, and she was most welcome to borrow it.

Though Bellis was well occupied with the finery and Bryn’s company she found her thoughts wandering to her mother more and more often. Was she really coming, as Lady Dís had assured she was? How long would she be? Was she travelling alone and if not, then with whom? She had a sudden and absurd wish that her mother had taken Frodo with her but she knew he was much to small to take on a journey across the mountain. Oh, but it would be so sweet to see him again. She tried to push the more uncomfortable thoughts concerning why she was here at all, to the back of her mind but it was impossible to forget them entirely. She thought of the man Helge and his companions, who they were and what they had said of her mother and she nearly blushed with anger until she remembered the kindly Master Balin. But then she recalled the odd behaviour of the King under the Mountain, how he had stared at her as if he was both elated and pained at her presence and of how silent he had been, even as that ratfaced boy (Sniggi? Siggi?) had cursed her mother’s name and-

Bellis had not realised how forceful her stitches had been until the thread had snapped.

She had decided then and there to banish any thoughts upon the matter entirely. Bryn’s company had helped her immensely and Bellis squeezed her companions arm a bit as they wandered down the corridor. Bryn was halfway through a rant about how her brother Baldur’s habit of borrowing her comb without asking when Bellis heard shouting ahead of them. At first it was barely distinguishable but as they continued down the wide hall, what sounded like a man and a woman having a heated discussion became louder and clearer. For once, her curiosity won out and she drew nearer to the door from which she could tell the sounds were coming despite Bryn’s protestations. Peering through the half ajar door, her heart suddenly jolted at a sight she was not expecting to see.

“Mac?!” she blurted out. The hobbit in question turned around looking equally as confused as she felt. Then she spotted her cousin Paladin two paces behind him which suddenly made her realise why they were there. She flung the door open and ran into the room, not caring who she would upset or offend with her behaviour, only caring for the figure she now saw standing in the middle of the room, busy freeing herself from the embrace of the King under the Mountain to get to her.

Bellis threw her arms around her ma, _her very own ma_ , with a cry of delight. She closed her eyes but could not stop the tears, did not really care to do so. Her mother smelt of weeks spent upon the road, of horse and sweat but to Bellis it was sweeter than any lavender oil for it was the scent of her mother having come all this way, for her, of finally being here. Her mother broke the embrace to get a look at her, caressing Bellis face and wiping her tears away before hugging her hard to her, whispering how much she had missed her and how glad she was of seeing her again. When they parted, Bellis could not help but smile through her tears. Then she hugged Merimac hard like she hadn’t done since they were tweens and thanked him for looking after her ma, at which he blushed and mumbled that it was no great thing. She rolled her eyes at him and then faced Paladin. She didn’t hug him but took both of his hands in hers and thanked him profusely: though he was her cousin he was still ten years her senior and they were not as well acquainted as she and Merimac was.

As she turned to face her mother, she realised that they were not alone but had rather a large audience. She did not feel embarrassed at the display she had just made: the happiness of being reunited with her ma and kin had made her bolder than she usually was, and she sounded a bit more rude too as she went to stand by her mother.

“Who are you?” she demanded, though she knew at least two of the assembled and could surmise who the rest of them were.

Master Balin, the one who had spoken kindly to her when she arrived, cleared his throat.

“Miss Bellis,” he began sounding a bit flustered, “may I introduce to you the former company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

He then pointed out each member who bowed in turn. It was strange, almost surreal, to put a face to the figures of her childhood tales. She ‘recognised’ Bofur with his hat (though she imagined it quite differently in her head) and Oín with his ear trumpet (in her mind it had been comically oversized) and Kíli too (whom she had always imagined to be blonde). The excitement she would otherwise have felt at meeting the heroes of her mother’s stories were somehow dampened by the circumstances which were now coming crashing back to Bellis. She felt torn between happiness at being reunited with her ma and the anger of having a reunion be necessary at all.

“… And the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin Oakenshield did not bow to her but reclined his head respectfully and smiled kindly at her. Bellis eyed him apprehensively. She felt herself being overtaken by the same bold anger that had driven her when she faced him the first time.

“You’re the one who banished my ma.”

She heard herself speak the words as if they were not her own, but the words of someone else entirely. His smile faltered and she heard her mother say her name softly. She turned to her.

“Well?” she prompted feeling the cold, just anger overtake her truly now. “Is it not the truth?”

Her mother shook her head and reached out towards her, trying to calm her but Bellis turned towards Thorin again.

“You needn’t concern yourself: she never spoke a word of it.” She nodded towards her mother whose face looked pained. “Even after what you did to her, she remained loyal to you.” She can barely recognise her own voice, laced with bitterness as it is.

“The man who stole me, Helge, he wasn’t as smart as he thought. He had them talking that language of yours all the time, so I wouldn’t understand. But the boy, the one with the ratface, he’d sometimes let something slip when the others didn’t listen. He told me what a good thing it was that the king had banished me for what I did, that there wasn’t a dwarrow amongst Durin’s folk who wouldn’t rejoice when I got what was coming to me. He thought I was you!” she spits the last sentence out in the direction of her ma, and she can see her ma’s eyes filling with tears and she almost regrets it. But then she directs her anger back at the king who is staring at her with dawning horror.

“She helped you! She left her home to help you take back yours and you banished her and cursed her and now you let your people do the same? They thought I was her and they **stole** me because they thought it would please you! How could you?” There are tears streaming down her face now, blurring her view of him but she can tell that she has hurt him, but she doesn’t feel victorious or righteous, only hollow.

“She loved you.” She says her voice so small that only he can hear her. “She loved you and you betrayed her.”

“My love.” her mother says, voice so gentle that it startles her, and she is reaching for her again and Bellis feels so sorry for her that it turns into anger.

And then she speaks the truth, speaks it into existence, the truth that she has somehow always known deep within from hearing her mother speak of him and seeing her face flash with pain and love when she would look upon Bellis face, a face that echoed that of her father and that Bellis now looks up at.

“I know who he is.” She says voice louder. “I know he’s my father. But I’d rather he wasn’t.”

And then she turns on her heel and leaves, the gasps of their audience accompanying her but she only makes it halfway to the door before the anger overtakes her once again. She turns around, this time addressing the rest of the company, voice thick with barely suppressed tears and emotion.

“And as for the rest of you, if you think that I will just forget that you stood by and watched him treat her thus, you are **dreaming!** ”.

She turns and flees the room, flying past Bryn who cries out to her but who cannot catch up. She runs so fast her lungs burn, runs seeking she knows not what. She runs until she doesn’t recognise her surrounding and then suddenly catches a glimpse of sunlight and she races after it, seeking the sun, seeking the wide expanse of the open sky for comfort.

The balcony she steps out onto offers a magnificent view of the city of Dale to the south and the edges of the Mirkwood to the west but Bellis hardly registers it as she falls to her knees upon the stones and weeps.

x

The footfalls are so soft that she thinks it’s her mother coming up behind her some time later. She is halfway through telling her to leave her alone when she turns around and sees that is not her mother but rather the King under the Mountain.

_Her father_ , she corrects herself internally and she let’s out a soft ‘oh’ as he steps closer to her. She looks down upon her hands where they are locked around her knees. Some of the anger that made her speak so harshly earlier has left her but she is still filled with anguish and she can feel the tears coming back into her eyes. She wills them away as the king comes to stand beside her, looking out onto the horizon.

“I owe you an apology.” His voice is deep and she realises that this is the first time he has addressed her directly. She looks up at him in surprise. Then she looks down at her hands again and laughs but there is little humour in it.

“I could say the same to you. I was very rude.”

If Bellis was still looking up at him she would have seen the tiniest of smirks graze his lips.

“Your words were very rude indeed. But they were true none the less.”

She doesn’t look up at him this time, only waits for him to continue though it takes a while for him to do so. Eventually he sits himself down beside her.

“Bellis… what you spoke was true. The way I treated your mother… it wasn’t right. In a way I did betray her. But for so long I was blinded by my anger and pride that I could not see it. And when I did see it, so long a time had passed that I didn’t want to rip up the wounds, even though I now see that they were not healed but festering. I forbade every mention of your mother’s name for every time I heard it I was reminded of my own failure, of my own… my own madness.” His voices wavers but he presses on. “I didn’t realise that my people took my silence, perceived my pretend at indifference, as hatred. Those… things they call your mother, they have not come from my lips nor been spoken in my presence until you came here.”

“But they did come from your lips.” She mumbles and looks at him. “Did you not name her traitor, once?” Her tone is sad and not malicious as it was earlier. Thorin sighs.

“I did. But I have not spoken of your mother since then. If you must hate me for something, hate me for that.”

Bellis mulls over this for a moment before she nods. It doesn’t excuse any of his crimes, but she is satisfied with the explanation none the less, no matter how bitter it makes her feel on her mother’s behalf.

“Bellis I-“

“Master Thorin-“

They both speak at once and at once stops, urging the other to go first. In the end Thorin wins out.

“Bellis, there is none of that which you said that I do not already blame myself for. I have much to atone for, it is true. But I am willing to do it. I know you said you did not want me for a father, but I would try to be one if you would let me.”

Bellis is silent for a long time before she answers.

“I didn’t mean it, not really” she mumbles and it’s the truth, not just some lie to ease the pain. “It’s just… I needed you so much as a child. I would see all the children around me, growing up with their fathers and mocking me for having none. And I would dream that you would ride in on a white horse like a hero from the songs and put me up on your horse and take me far away from them...”

“And now?” he prompts.

“And now…” she falls silent for a moment. “Now I’m grown up. I realised that the songs were just songs and that some children are fatherless and remain so. I had made my peace with it. I was perfectly content with it just being me and ma. And then those dwarrows took me and I realised the truth and now here you are, wanting to be my father and… I feel it’s too late. I’m not a little girl anymore. I'm not a babe in arms that you can claim for your own. You don’t get to make that the decision for me. Not you, not ma, not anyone.”

She can see that this hurts him, but she continues on.

“And then there’s the fact that… well, I’m angry with you. You and your company. For forty years you have had a chance to seek out my mother, to make amends with her but you never did. None of you did. And I don’t think you ever would have, if those dwarrow hadn’t stolen me. I… it feels as if you are only forgiving her for me and not because it is the right thing to do. It’s… it’s too easy!”

She sighs, frustrated at the fact that she cannot properly articulate all her frustrations. Beside her, Thorin sits silent and deep in thought.

“You are right.” He says finally. “I never tried to seek out your mother. I suppose it was for the same reasons that I did not speak of her. But others of the company tried.”

Her head turns sharply towards him and she stares at him in shock.

“Kíli, my sister-son… he tried seeking her out, a few years after the quest. He only told me yesterday. He spent all day staring at Bag End, working up his courage but when he went to knock, he was greeted by a very rude hobbit who informed him that Bilbo Baggins no longer lived there. Asking around for her didn’t help either, none would tell him her whereabouts. He surmised, quite correctly I believe, that your mother didn’t want to be found for which I cannot blame her. In fact, I wouldn’t truly blame her if she decided to leave now either. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt me. It may not be the noble thing to do, but I cannot help fighting for that which I want.”

She mulls over this new information. One dwarf in forty years doesn’t excuse all of it but at least it shows that her mother had not been entirely forgotten.

“And yet still,” she says and there is more hurt in her voice than anger now. “I am angry with you. All of you. I’ve never been a vindictive sort of person, but the way you treated her it makes me want to see you hurt for what you did.” She clenches and unclenches her hands, not knowing what to do with the anger that is building within her. “And what’s worse, it makes me want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in my life, not even the idiots who stole me, I just wanted them out of my sight and out of my mind. But you!” she’s nearly shouting the words, but her voice sounds so lost and confused that it comes out more pitiful than she would like. “I look at you and I feel like grabbing my ma and running away, never to return, not because it’s what I want but because it would hurt you.”

He’s silent for a long while after her rant. She sits, breathing heavily as if she had just run a long distance. Then he speaks again, and his voice is less condescending this time, less of a mockery of the fatherhood he is not used to.

“Bellis, I fear that I have gone about this the wrong way. You are right: you are not a little girl that your mother and I can fight over. You must forgive me for that, but I only became a father yesterday.” This actually earns him a lopsided smile from her, and he continues. “But I would try to be a father to you, in a way that is acceptable to you, if you would let me.”’

She weighs his words for a good long while before she answers.

“If I were to… allow you to be my father, you’d have to promise me some things.”

“Anything. Within reason.”

“Always a catch with you dwarrows, isn’t there?” she chuckles humourlessly. “Well, first of all, my home is in the Shire. I wouldn’t mind coming back here, but the Shire is my home and it will probably be so for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t dream of forcing you from your home, Bellis. I hope you believe me.”

“Right, the dragon business, sorry. Well, second… I know that you’re a king and all that, but I wouldn’t want to be a princess or any kind of royalty. I’m a bastard-“

“We don’t have that concept.”

“Well, hobbits do and I’m half a hobbit so I’m at least half a bastard too. You’re not married to my ma so I probably wouldn’t be in line for the throne, but I want you to promise me that I won’t ever be regardless.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. My sister-son Fíli has three sons and it is not too late for Kíli to sire heirs of his own.”

“That’s good. I’d like to meet them sometime.”

“So you shall.”

“And third… I want you to revoke ma’s banishment.”

“Bellis, it is already done-“

“I don’t care what words have been spoken between the two of you, that’s your own business. Take no offense, but I don’t want you to be able to go back on your word and kick her out. You can’t have me and not her. I want it to be done proper, publicly and all.”

He nods silently and she continues voice sharper than the frankly ridiculous-looking blade that hangs at his side.

“And know that if you ever do anything to hurt my ma ever again, I will hurt you, worse than you have hurt her. It won’t be the kind of hurt you are used to inflicting with that blade of yours, but it will hurt all the more. I promise you that.”

She must sound ridiculous, she thinks, a little girl playing at making threats to a king but in that moment, she knows her own words to be true. She sees the realisation reflected in Thorin’s eyes, her father’s eyes and for a brief, terrifying moment she feels that, yes, she is his daughter, capable of the same harm as he and knows that she would not hesitate to turn it against him. The feeling is both horrible and exhilarating. _If I ever hurt you, father, it will be self-defence_. Then the moment of brief, sweet invincibility is over. Thorin nods once, twice.

“I understand. And I swear that I will do my best not to give you cause to uphold your promise. Do you have any more conditions?”

“Oh, loads. Those were just the introductory ones.”

She smiles wryly at him and he returns it. Neither of them says anything as the sun begins to set upon the Lonely Mountain, but Bellis does place her hand upon Thorin’s and gives it a squeeze. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very long chapter. Bellis has a lot of feelings. 
> 
> Again, I must thank you for your thoughtful comments and speculation. I'm glad to see that I managed to turn some people around on the whole issue: I enjoy fluffy reunion fics where they resolve their issues, get married and live happily ever after myself but I always felt like writing something where that was not the case. Still, I hope I managed to get across that there is hurt on both sides. Bilbo isn't a saint and neither is Thorin and they could argue from here until doomsday about who's right and who's wrong but that's not the point. The point is that Bellis is her own person, which is exactly why I didn't write her as a child. 
> 
> Next up: the last chapter! I haven't decided whether it will be an actual chapter or an epilogue, but we'll see.


	9. In which Knut contemplates the complexities of hobbits

Knut couldn’t quite comprehend that his life had gone to absolutely shit in the span of three and a half months.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly how it had happened, where it had all went wrong and why (trusting Helge and being the biggest fool this side of the Misty Mountains, which really were synonymous, where the answer to all three). But even after spending the better part of two weeks in Erebors darkest cells he still can’t wrap his head around the fact that it had happened.

Of course sharing a cell with his cousin-turned-madman, who spends most of the day rocking back and forth, Gunnar who won’t stop wailing over the fact that his betrothed Jytta will abandon him do this his disgrace and Einar who’s wailing over the fact that his brother won’t stop wailing over his betrothed, had rather prohibited him from thinking things through properly.  

It’s a bit overwhelming.

To his surprise, Siggi had been the least problematic of his cellmates. In fact, they seemed to have entered some sort of uneasy alliance, where they don’t say a word to one another and encourage their fellow prisoners to follow their example. Knut would have forsworn it just a few days ago: when he had held back the hobbit girl (Bellis, her name was) it had not been for Siggi’s sake but for hers. The girl certainly put up a good fight but she wouldn’t have been able to take on a grown dwarrow in a fight, not even one as scrawny as Siggi and Knut wouldn’t put it past him to hit girls smaller than him. There was no love lost between him and the other dwarrow, but after three days in the cell Knut’s sanity had been at stake and his options for allies in the quest of keeping it, had been limited.

Trying to make sense of it all quickly proving futile, Knut had turned his thoughts upon the only comfort he could think of; home. But even the thoughts of seeing his mother again and ruffling his little sisters’ hair were poisoned by the knowledge that if he should ever see them again, it would most likely be with a shorn beard. Would they even welcome him back, disgraced as he was? The thought of never seeing his mother, father and sister again was nearly as painful as the thought of inflicting this shame upon them. He did not, could not, dwell on what was to become of him if they ever decide to let him out of this blasted jailcell. Feeling his own shame cut at him like knives at what they had done, what _he_ had done, was to be preferred.

Knut is brought of his deep thoughts by the sound of footsteps and perks up. The guards only come down here twice a day with food and water and there was little recreation but counting the hours between the two. He exchanged a look with Siggi. It was definitely irregular. The footsteps came closer and he realised that they were carrying a torch with them. As the footsteps came to a holt right outside of their barred cell he was blinded by the light from the lamp, after having spent such a long time in near pitch-black darkness. Blinking rapidly, he could make out three, no, four figures: one tall and broad, two of middling height and a third whose head seemed to be deformed somehow. After a minute he could tell that it was in fact not a head deformity but rather a very elaborate hairstyle, sticking out in peaks that gave the silhouette it’s odd shape.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, lass.” Knut jumped at the low, grumbling voice.

“Then it is fortunate that I did not bring you to judge my ideas, but to open the doors. Did you bring the keys?” the voice was familiar and decidedly non-dwarvish in accent. Knut realised with a sinking feeling that he knew exactly where he recognised it from.

“Aye. May Mahâl forgive me.”

“You should rather pray for the king to forgive you.” Piped up another voice, thick with an Ered Luin accent that made Knut feel acutely homesick.

“He won’t ever find out you helped me, unless you tell him.” The girl Bellis said in a sing-song voice.

“How you mean to convince your father that you managed to jailbreak four dwarrows without getting caught, is beyond me.” A new voice says, accent unplaceable.

“Well, I’m half a burglar, am I not? Now open the door.”

They obey and the door swings open and Bellis steps fully into view. The last time he had seen her she had been filthy, face ragged from crying and hair a matted mess. Now, she is clean, dressed finely in rich green velvet and her dark hair is shining. How he could miss that she was of dwarrow blood, and of noble birth at that, while having her right in front of him in the saddle for weeks, is beyond him.

The look on her face is different too. Gone is the frightened and furious girl, replaced by something colder and bolder. Aye, there is kingsblood in her, no doubt and Knut doesn’t know if it’s because he has spent several weeks in confinement, but her presence makes him blush and he averts his gaze from hers.

“What are you doing here?” Even when sounding truly astonished Siggi manages to sound nasty and Knut sighs. It was much easier to like the boy when he was silent.

Bellis directs an unimpressed look at him, before addressing them all.

“I am here to free you. I have no desire to see you punished for your crimes. All I want is for you to be gone, hopefully to some place far away from me.” She says it in such a mundane way that Knut’s head has difficulty processing it. The silence stretches on.

“Oh, for Yavannas’ sake!” Bellis says, “You really are as dim as you look, aren’t you? Get up! You are free! Rise! Before I change my mind.” And she urges them on and up, as if she was herding a flock of hens to feeding. Einar and Gunnar stand up hesitantly and Knut and Siggi follow suit. Only Helge remain seated on the floor.

“Unshackle them.” Bellis says and for the first time, Knut pays attention to her companions. He recognises them all from their audience with the king, the tall one he can even vaguely point out as the King’s warchief while the ones with the peaked hair and floppy hat are unknown to him. They must all be among the heroes of Erebor, though, which puzzles him somehow. Why would members of Thorin Oakenshield’s illustrious company be helping his bastard daughter break the men who kidnapped her out of jail? As the tall one carry out Bellis’ commands Knut cannot help himself from asking.

“What are they doing here?” he asks, voice raspy from not using it. Bellis turns to him and eyes him.

“Well, I couldn’t do this on my own. I needed help. And it so happens that Dwalin”, she points out the burly one with a flip of her head, “had access to the keys and that Nori,” this time she indicates the dwarrow with the elaborate hair, “is the king’s spy master so he knows all the secret ways out of the mountain. And Bofur…” she turns towards the hatted dwarrow holding the lamp. “Remind me why you are here, Bofur?”

The dwarrow in question grins.

“Just wanted to do my part, lass. Plus, I’ve always liked a bit of civil disobedience. Keeps you young.”

Bellis looks sceptical but shrugs, apparently satisfied with the explanation but seemingly not grateful for his being here. Knut however, is not satisfied.

“Yes but… why are you here? You’re the heroes of Erebor, you shouldn’t-“

“Don’t think you should be going around telling people what they should or shouldn’t do, Knut, son of Algut.” The dwarrow with the peaked hair says, his tone casual but his words are hard enough to make Knut shut up.

“Let’s just say that the ‘heroes of Erebor’ have some things to atone for. They owe me.” Bellis scoffs.

Finally free of his shackles, Knut realised that Helge had not yet stood up. It seemed that Bellis had the same realisation. She held out her hand and motioned for Dwalin to hand over the keys. Then she kneeled down in front of Helge and started to free him of his shackles, which was rather difficult since he was still curled around himself.

“Why are you doing this?”

The voice is barely audible, but it makes Knut look up in surprise. It is the first time he has heard his cousin address anyone but himself since their audience with the king.

Bellis continues her efforts to get her cousin free for a minute, apparently not bothered by his question. Then she speaks, tone casual as if she was making idle chitchat and not addressing the architect behind her own kidnapping.

“You believe in Mahâl the Maker, Master Helge? I assume you do, even though you are not one of his best children. Well, in the Shire, we worship our own maker, Yavanna, who is his lady. Rather fitting for me, don’t you think?” she chuckles. “Our Lady is kind and bountiful and she teaches us to be the same. She tells us that we must forgive our enemies, that we must love them. If your enemy asks you for your last piece of bread or the shirt off your back, you must give it to him, and kiss him and make peace with him. Of course, it is impossible for most to actually do this but one should strive to follow Yavannas’ actions, even if our own are incomplete. That is what I’m doing.”

With a final click of a lock she loosens Helge from his shackles and stands up again. She looks down at him with cold indifference.

“It would be easy for me to have your beards shorn or your heads removed. Easier and quicker than this, most certainly. But I don’t think it would please me. Not really.”

And then she crouches down, so she is at eye-level with Helge again.

“I want you to live. I want you to wake up every morning and know that it is because of me, because of my kindness, that you are able to do so. I know Yavanna means for us to feel glad for our enemies, to rejoice with them but I think I’m allowed not to, in this instance. I want my kindness to hurt you. I want it to sting, like salt to a wound. And I will take great pleasure in knowing that the wound will never quite heal. At least for you, it won't.”

And then she rises again, and she looks around at all of them, an almost smile playing on her lips and an air of relief about her.

“I forgive you all. I forgive you. And I hope it hurts to know.”

She turns around and leaves the cell without another look.

Later, as Knut rides into the night on a pony procured from Mahâl-knows-where, having been ushered through secret tunnels by the not so kind hands of Bellis’ compatriots, he cannot help but feel that this outcome feels a thousand times worse than loosing his beard or his hand would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last actual chapter! Only the epilogue left.


End file.
